


All Said And Done

by PoppyAlexander



Series: Dawn Before the Rest of the World [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: All The Stories In This Series Have Crying, Alternate Universe - 1920s, Bit Of Crying, Coda, Declarations Of Love, Dirty Talk, Hand Jobs, Kissing, M/M, Our Final Visit to Stonefield Hall, Period-Typical Homophobia, Romance, Romantic Dirty Talk, Stately Home AU, Sweet, Wall Sex, butler!sherlock, gardener!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-08
Updated: 2015-07-08
Packaged: 2018-04-08 06:35:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4294431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/pseuds/PoppyAlexander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Our last visit to Stonefield Hall finds buttoned-up 1920s butler Sherlock Holmes and the world's most romantic human, gardener John Watson, leaving Stonefield behind to embark on a new chapter.</p><p>AU - 1920s Stately Home</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Said And Done

“I wanted you to be first to know, Holmes; you’ll tell the staff?”

“Of course, Madame. Thank you for thinking of me.”

“I wish I could say it was a complete shock, but the handwriting was on the wall. . .all the old houses are being sold off. I only wish. . .”

“ _Ah’ehm_. . .My handkerchief, Madam.”

“Oh, yes, thank you, Holmes. I’m sorry. I’m being silly. It’s just a house.”

“Not silly at all, Madame. Change is difficult.”

“I know you grew up here, Holmes, and your family has as long a history at Stonefield Hall as the Colonel’s family. And I only arrived a few years ago when we married, but I have so adored being mistress of this house.”

“Ah. . .ehrm. .  .There, there, ah. . .Madame.”

“Nevermind. Nevermind. Forgive me my sentimental outburst. Time marches on, I know. And at least we all have our health.”

“Indeed.”

“The Colonel wanted me to assure you that your family’s burial plot will remain untouched; it’s all spelled out in the contracts. Your friend Watson will keep it up, won’t he?”

“I’m sure he will. Thank you.”

“And so I suppose it’s time to arrange packing the things that will come back to town with us. Six weeks is sure to fly by with so much work to be done.”

“Yes, Madame, I’m sure it will.”

*

Holmes’s voice was steady and did not invite comment. Standing at the head of the table, he finished, “Of course you’ll all be given letters of recommendation, and each of you will be granted two extra days free of work, so that you may meet with potential employers.”

Young Margaret’s throat was tight as she peeped, “But. . .it’s quite. . . _soon_.” Mrs Wood, the cook, reached across two of the senior maids to pat Margaret’s hand, and hushed her.

Holmes tugged at the front of his coat, then resumed his usual posture with hands clasped in the small of his back. “Surely you’ll find an arrangement, Margaret,” he intoned. Margaret did not look reassured.

“I should’ve guessed it, when no housekeeper was hired to replace Miss Hooper,” Mrs Wood tsked.

Sherlock said, “Let’s not lower ourselves to gossip and speculation, Mrs Wood. Energy is better spent in finding new employment.” He looked briefly around at the faces of the staff, then abruptly resumed his seat. “Get on with the blessing, if you wish, and let’s all eat before it goes cold.”

*

Sherlock was unusually quiet, at the table after supper while he smoked and John sipped tea from his saucer. The lines in his forehead were clear and sharp, and his gaze wandered, fixing on some nowhere-spot in the middle distance.

“Any idea what will happen to the house? Or. . .the estate?” John ventured quietly, knowing that Sherlock’s thoughts could only be occupied with the imminent closure and sale of Stonefield Hall—not just his place of employment, the product of sleek efficiency and attention-to-detail which were his main source of pride, but also the only home he had ever known. John longed to take Sherlock’s hand but knew he wouldn’t tolerate it, in the kitchen where anyone could pass through at any time.

“Same as Pelham, one assumes,” Sherlock replied. “Auction off the contents, demolish the house for the stone and the fireplaces. . .the entry doors.” All at once looked stricken, eyes wide and glimmering, and John could no longer resist his urge, laying his palm on Sherlock’s forearm beneath the turned-back cuff of his shirtsleeve, and stroking him a bit. Sherlock busied himself, fussing with his pipe, and John let him go. “The land will be divided and sold to the tenant-farmers.”

“They’re talking of making the big house at Briarcliff into a hotel,” John put in.

“Good god.”

John wanted to be understanding and gentle, but a Sherlock Holmes untethered from Stonefield was uncharted territory, and he was struggling to find the right tone to take. “The cottage will be done just in time, I think,” he offered. “The fruit trees took well to the transplanting; only lost two of them.”

Sherlock nodded absently. “You’ve got green fingers, John.”

“We’re going to be just fine, Sherlock.  We were going, anyway.”

Sherlock’s face was a pale study in abject misery. “I don’t want to think about it anymore tonight.” He shook his head, began to gather his pipe and his coat hung on the chairback, rose to stand. He dragged one long palm across the back of John’s shoulders as he passed behind his chair, and issued a plaintive demand.

“Come to bed.”

*

John had commandeered a rusty bicycle from the far reaches of the toolshed to get himself back and forth between Stonefield and his bit of ground six miles distant, on the edge of the former Briarcliff estate. He rose before the sun to start his day’s work, delegated more than usual, and tried to finish by two in the afternoon so he could pedal to the rapidly rising frame of the cottage, often waving and calling hello to Molly as he passed the new vicar’s house along his way. He worked until the sun was just teasing the edge of the horizon, knowing that he would have just enough daylight to get safely back to Stonefield, where Sherlock waited at the big kitchen table with a pot of tea and a covered plate of supper Mrs Wood always set aside for him. Sundays he pedaled past the vicarage and the church at first light, avoiding any potential invitation to the morning’s service, and worked all day—on the land until lunchtime (Margaret packed him a bucket), then after lunch he went at the house, usually joined by a couple of soon-to-be-unemployed hands from the local estates, who he paid in cash and promises.

After nearly a month, there was real progress to be seen: the exterior of the cottage was finished but for the rendering to smooth the surface of the rubble-stone walls. There was glass in all the windows and a good solid front door. The roof was on. There were chimneys where chimneys were wanted, and John had put small wooden stakes in the ground and run strings between them to mark out the front path and a few planting beds.

The interior, however, was another story altogether as the finish work was not the specialty of any man in John’s employ. The work was piecemeal, often argued over (lack of experience held no one back from offering his own idea of the best way to do things), and occasionally had to be taken out and done again (as when the sink taps were installed with the temperatures reversed). There were only suggestions of interior walls, as the only man in the county qualified to lay in the electric wires was recovering after having been kicked in the knee by a donkey. John had spent nearly fifty hours building the narrow staircase from the ground floor to the first, carefully leveling the treads, measuring the risers three times before cutting the boards (thirteen were needed; he’d had to cut twenty-one).

One Sunday afternoon John got his hands on the Albatros and Sherlock braved the drive with him, mostly refraining from complaint about the road-dust that assaulted them as they motored from Stonefield to the back edge of the Briarcliff property.

“The apple trees look no worse for wear,” he commented as they passed the little orchard John had created from castoff trees the owner of Briarcliff had allowed him to claim for the price of his own labour.

“I’m pleased,” John half-shouted to be heard over the auto’s engine. He was half-giddy as they began to crest a slight hill and approached a bend in the road that curved out of the way of the brook. Around the curve, they’d come in sight of the cottage. “I hope you will be, too, when you see what’s been done.”

Sherlock gave him a small, nervous smile.

“It’s not Stonefield Hall,” John allowed. “But I think it’ll do.” He tipped his chin, indicating, and Sherlock turned his face away from John’s, looking through the car’s windscreen.

“John,” he said—not much in it—and then said nothing else. John wasn’t at all sure Sherlock thought the little house was even habitable, let alone that it would “do.”

“It’ll look a bit neater once the walls are smoothed over,” John said apologetically. They rolled up within shouting distance of the house and John turned off the car. The sudden silence left when he cut he engine was disorienting.

“Expecting any help today?” Sherlock asked, and his eyes were scanning the cottage, the staked-out spaces in the dug and trodden dirt, the crooked little stone walls marking out the front garden.

“Not until later this afternoon.”

Sherlock’s arm stretched across the space between them and his hand grasped the back of John’s neck, pulling him in and kissing him hard.

When they broke apart, John licked Sherlock’s saliva from his lips and smiled broadly. “You like it, then.”

Sherlock shook his head in disbelief, and sounded genuinely awed as he said, “John Watson, you’ve gone and built a house.”

“Well, it’s not done yet.” They got out of the car and started toward the front door. “As you’ll soon see.” John pushed open the door and made wide gesture for Sherlock to go inside.

“Why, thank you, Watson,” Sherlock said with a playful smile. “You needn’t announce me.”

“Who would I announce you to?” John said immediately, stepping into the entry hall beside Sherlock. “You’re master of this house.”

Sherlock’s cheeks flushed pink at this, and he looked at the floor, smiling with his teeth.

John shut the front door behind them, grasped Sherlock’s chin and tipped it up so their eyes met. “How gorgeous you are when I take you by surprise,” he marveled. “I’ll endeavour to surprise you every day.” Sherlock only went on smiling, looking down, blushing furiously. “ _Sherlock_.” He met John’s eyes in response to the quiet crooning. “Don’t know if you knew, so I thought I’d tell you: we’re about to share our first kiss inside our own home.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows jumped up.

“It’s true,” John assured, and ran his hands up the front of Sherlock’s coat, clutching the lapels between fingers and thumbs. He leaned up, and Sherlock leaned down, and they met in the middle with parted lips fitted together just so. John applied pressure, gently sucking Sherlock’s lower lip between his own, and Sherlock let go a tiny hum in response. John took it for a perfect kiss, and released him.

“Let me show you around,” John said then, and took Sherlock by the hand, mildly surprised when Sherlock did not immediately pull himself free; clearly things in their little house were going to be different than at Stonefield. John stepped through the first doorway to their left. “Kitchen and dining room all in one,” he said. “Unless you’d rather a wall between them.”

Sherlock looked down the length of the room, which ran from the front of the house to the back.

“I don’t. . .” Sherlock fumbled. “It’s.”

“I can’t imagine we’ll be having formal dinner parties,” John offered, “And we’re used to eating in the kitchen.” He shrugged. “But whatever you like. It’s not too late to put a wall, maybe a swinging door.”

Sherlock’s grip on his hand had tightened, as if he were afraid he might get lost. “I’ll think it over?” he said at last.

“Of course,” John replied quickly, and they walked together to the back of the kitchen. “The ice box and range are on order. The worktops are butcherblock—useful, and they’ll last. I’ve got a fella coming, a few weeks hence, to finish the floors; we can stain the planks or leave them as they are, just put a varnish on.”

Sherlock nodded. “Two windows,” he noted.

“The views are nicest facing east here, I think. The kitchen garden will be just there.” He pointed toward the left hand window above the worktop. “And through this one, you can see that stand of willows in the distance.”

“Very nice,” Sherlock allowed, but John couldn’t discern what he might be thinking. The bridge of his nose was slightly wrinkled, but the rest of his face was unreadable, neither smiling nor frowning.

“Remember I was saying that we have to name the place? As I was falling asleep last night, I thought of the willows, and the brook, and suddenly it was obvious.”

Sherlock ventured, “Willowbrook?”

John smiled with his entire face. “Willowbrook Farm,” he said proudly, then added, “But I want you to name the house. Will you think on it? Not right away, just. . .whenever you’re inspired.” Sherlock grinned tightly and gave a little nod of assent. John dropped his hand and gestured through a doorway that led them back out to the hallway. “Closet here under the stairs,” he said. “You have to use your imagination; there’ll be a door here, this will all be closed in.”

Sherlock nodded.

“Through here is the drawing room. I thought we might get a radio set in here, and comfortable chairs. A table for your pipe stand, and a stool to put your feet up on. Bookcases.” Sherlock stepped forward to sweep his fingertips along the curve of one of the smooth, rounded river stones that made up the fire surround and the chimney. “It’ll be snug,” John offered. He’d spent nearly every minute since the walls went up imagining Sherlock in this room with his feet up, reading his books, smoking his pipe after supper in the evening.

They passed through to the front room. “Front parlour,” John said needlessly. The fire surround was set into the wall, green tile, with a simple wooden mantelpiece around it of such inferior quality wood John was planning to paint it. Sherlock looked around at the stone walls, sloppy globs of mortar showing in every joint between the stones. Before he could frown or comment, John hurriedly reminded him. “The walls aren’t in yet; it will be much nicer to have smooth plaster walls; I can have the fellas tint it if you like, nearly any colour.”

“That will be an improvement,” Sherlock agreed.

“Shall we go upstairs?” John offered. “I built these entirely on my own, by the way,” he said as they ascended the narrow stairwell. “You’ll notice how effectively they take us from the ground floor to the first.”

John could hear the smile as Sherlock, walking up ahead of him, replied. “They’re a wonder. You’re clearly gifted.”

“Well, I don’t like to say,” John joked, self-deprecating. “To the right, bedroom and bathroom. To the left, bedroom and study—I thought you’d like to have your writing table in there. It’s small but it has a nice view.”

Sherlock, on the landing, seemed unable to decide which way to go, stood frozen to the spot, staring out the small, high window at the top of the stairs. John touched his elbow. “Here,” he said gently. “Both bedrooms are the same; we’re over here.” He guided Sherlock to double back down the hallway to the left, pushed open the door to the bedroom. John stepped inside; Sherlock stood in the hallway with his toes just on the threshold, leaned in and looked clockwise around the room—the floorboards were still unstained and unvarnished, but the walls were smooth, cream-coloured plaster.

“Space for two wardrobes, and I’ve built in some shelves—here.” John strode across the room and lifted the latch on a small door set flush in the wall, opened it to indicate the three shelves hidden behind it. “We can put a chair and lamp here in the corner, or a tall mirror on a stand?” He indicated with one hand. “Bed here, between the windows.” He felt like he’d been babbling, and Sherlock had been so quiet since they’d arrived, particularly since they’d come inside the house. John worried what Sherlock must be thinking, comparing this little box John had made to the elegant sprawl of Stonefield Hall. John cleared his throat. “Will you not. . .” he started. Cleared his throat again. “come inside?”

Sherlock looked for all the world like John had just woken him from a dream. His eyes went wide and he suddenly stood straight up, then stepped inside the room, hesitantly took a few strides until he was stood near the wall between the windows. He looked across the room at John, blinking.

“Put a bed here, you said?” he asked.

John closed the space between them until he was close enough to touch Sherlock, though he didn’t actually touch him. “I was thinking we’ll set up the other room much the same. For appearances’ sake,” he offered with a shrug.

Sherlock looked deeply concerned, as if he were working out a perplexing problem. “I don’t care about appearances, John,” he said, and his nose and forehead were still significantly creased.

John couldn’t keep the smile from his face. “Of course you do. You live to keep up appearances.” John petted Sherlock’s arm. “I don’t mind; behind closed doors, we’ll do as we like.”

Sherlock’s gaze darted all around him, from one side of the room to the other, the corners of the ceiling, like he was looking for an escape. John held him by both arms, just above his elbows, trying to ground him. “Sherlock, what is it?”

“Nothing, John. Only—“

“You look pale; are you feeling all right?” John asked then. “We can go outside, get some air.”

“No,” Sherlock said quickly. “No. I’m fine.” His green-blue eyes met John’s then, and he stared hard for a long few seconds. “Our house,” he said at last. “Our. . .bed?” His eyebrows climbed steadily up his forehead. “John. My god.”

John didn’t know whether to laugh or cry or reassure Sherlock or make him sit with his head between his knees or call the whole thing off as an impossible crazy dream, so in the meantime, he kissed him. Sherlock’s lips parted for him but stayed soft and impassive; John wound his hands around Sherlock’s back, stroked him reassuringly.

John leaned down to press his lips to the side of Sherlock’s throat, then murmured. “Yes, our bed, and a good one, too. And I’m going to spread you out across it like an offering on an altar, my own one.” Sherlock’s breath left him in a quiet sigh and John nuzzled his nose upward along Sherlock’s neck as he went on whispering. “And I’ll spend forever just looking and looking at you—in lamplight, and in candlelight, and in the moonlight. . .” Sherlock melted into John’s embrace, resting his hands at the sides of John’s waist, and John pressed their chests together, pushing forward so that Sherlock stepped back—then back again--until his back was against the wall. John’s tongue-tip teased the edge of Sherlock’s ear and then he whispered, “And—my god, Sherlock—I’ll look and look at you, at all your gorgeous bare skin, every freckle and every hair on your body, in the light of the early morning when the sun comes in that window.” He tipped his head, indicating. “Because at first light, you’ll be right here with me, beside me, for me to kiss. . .” He dragged an open-mouthed kiss across Sherlock’s jaw. “And to pet. . .” He let his hand drift up the back of Sherlock’s neck, above the edge of his collar, to twist one errant curl around his fingertip.

Sherlock’s hands moved to clutch at the back of John’s shirt and he let out a faint gasp, dipping his head to find John’s mouth with his own, licking into the seam of John’s lips, and then deeper. They came away breathless and Sherlock breathed John’s name as if claiming ownership of him.

“When I lay you out across our bed I plan to take my time with you, because at last we’ll have all the time in the world—no more slinking off into the dark, worried that someone might see. And I’m going to please you so thoroughly, so slowly, and make you hum and sigh beneath me.”

Sherlock sucked in a gasp.

John leaned his hip hard against the top of Sherlock’s thigh, dragged his hand down the front of Sherlock’s shirt to the fastenings of his trousers and his teeth nipped at Sherlock’s chin. “I plan to work my tongue between each one of your beautiful, long toes. Then kiss my way up your calves to the insides of your knees, then—oh, god—those thighs, those long white thighs, _mm_ , licking, kissing. . .”

Sherlock let go an urgent, quiet moan against the top of John’s head, into his hair, and he clutched at John’s back.

“You needn’t be quiet anymore, my angel. Let me hear you,” John urged, and tugged hard at the front of Sherlock’s trousers, out and down, left and right, making space. “I’m going to kiss and lick and suck your gorgeous pale thighs until they’re quivering.” John’s voice was rough-faced silk, his breath damp and hot against Sherlock’s flushed neck where he nosed aside the damnable, strangling collar. “That’s a _promise_ , Sherlock,” he added, and Sherlock’s body spasmed against him as if by an electric jolt. “But I won’t take my prize right away; instead I’ll pinch the skin of your belly between my teeth, and flick my tongue against it. . .would that make you cry out for me, do you think?”

“My god,” Sherlock murmured. “My god.”

“Say it aloud, Sherlock. There’s no one around to hear but me, and I want to. I want to hear you.”

John swiped his palm quickly across his tongue to slick it, reached for Sherlock and held him, and then, at last, began to stroke him. Sherlock shuddered out a broken, three-part moan, and tossed his head back so it thudded against the newly plastered wall.

“Oh, you precious thing,” John crooned, and shifted his pelvis to work himself against Sherlock’s thigh, which hitched forward to meet him. “To see you arranged so prettily on our bed, every single bit of you there for me to worship. . .” Sherlock let out a needy moan, still as restrainedly quiet as he’d always been in his little room not far from other rooms, with its window that faced the drive. His knees bent slightly and he surrendered the weight of his body to John before him and the wall behind him. He began to rock in time with the movement of John’s hand, John’s hips, in slow, measured rhythm. “I’d take my time teasing your pink nipples because I adore them, and I adore the way you wrap your arms tight around my head, arch your back, smother me to your chest when I lick, and suck, and bite.”

Not a cry, only a growled huff of breath: “John!”

John’s hand made a cunning detour downward, cradled and rolled, and Sherlock’s torso shuddered, his head falling forward once more.

“Kiss me,” Sherlock muttered. “Kiss me, kiss me, oh, ki—“

John’s mouth closed violently around Sherlock’s, their tongues thrusting, lips deforming, both their mouths flushed dark and swollen. When they broke apart, it was with a matched set of deep, hungry groans. John let the fingers of his free hand dig hard into the flesh of Sherlock’s flank through the rough fabric of his trousers, shoving at him until he assumed a different angle, and John sucked his teeth at the new sensation, grinding desperately against Sherlock’s offered thigh, the ridge of hipbone.

“You perfect—“ he gasped, nearly there now, “— _perfect_ beauty. I’ll kiss the insides of your elbows, bury my face in the hair under your arm, suck _oh, jesus, suck_ a bruise onto your gorgeous neck.”

Sherlock took up a chanted litany of _John, John, John_. . .just below his normal tone, and his head rocked side to side in the curve between John’s neck and shoulder. Sherlock rested heavy and soft against John’s body, his thigh muscle taut between John’s legs and his hips thrusting up into John’s slick palm.

“God, my name in your mouth. . .” John whispered, and landed a messy kiss on Sherlock’s cheek. “Never stop.”

“John. . .” Sherlock grunted between each gasp of John’s name. “John. . . _mn_. . .John. . . _mn_. . .”

“Only when you’re desperate for me, my own one—trembling, reaching for me, whining. . .”

“John. . .” A desperate moan.

“God yes.”

Sherlock balled up the back of John’s shirt in his fists, thrust hard upward once, twice, let out a long, low, “ _Ohhh_. . .” against the side of John’s face as he finished, and John urged him on with fervent whispers.

“My own perfect angel. . .you are the _most_ perfect thing. . .You should see your beautiful face. . .”

Sherlock huffed a quiet, “John. . .” as he settled back to himself, and John shifted away, hands frantic at the fastenings of his own trousers until Sherlock’s hands joined them; long fingers wound around John’s wrist and rode along as John worked steadily toward his own end. Sherlock turned his face to whisper, lips moving against the whorls and ridges of John’s ear. “When you lay me down there on our good bed, John, and make a meal of me—“

“Oh god. Oh yes.”

“I’ll shiver and sigh beneath your perfect, expert fingers. . .will that please you?”

“Y—. . .yes. Yes.”

“And when you finally claim me, with those rough hands I love to feel against my skin, and with that cunning, wicked mouth. . .”

“Sherlock, my god.”

“I think I will—John—I think I will cry out, then. I think I’ll _shout_.”

John’s body tensed from head to foot, and his hand stilled but squeezed, then inched forward, slid back, Sherlock still holding his wrist.

“I think you could make me cry out loud. I’m sure of it.”

John’s open mouth landed on Sherlock’s shoulder, teeth closing down hard around the cable of muscle there through the layers of his clothes. John whimpered, and his chest heaved, and Sherlock reached behind his neck to stroke soothingly down the length of his spine.

After a moment spent catching his breath, John went back to claim Sherlock’s mouth in a rough kiss that melted into tenderness as the moment passed away. At last, they broke apart, mopped themselves with shirt tails they then tucked carefully away in their trousers as they set themselves back in order. John stepped back, reached up to relocate a curl of Sherlock’s hair that had come loose against his forehead.

“I’m counting the days, precious thing,” John said plainly, and Sherlock grinned, closed-mouthed, and looked down and away. “I know you have mixed feelings, Sherlock,” John said then, and his tone was different, less breathless and more serious.

Sherlock looked up at him then, and his eyes were wide.

“Stonefield has been your home all your life, and your family before you. I understand. I see how sad you’ve been these past few weeks, and I’m sorry for it, I truly am.”

“It’s. . .” Sherlock didn’t finish, only shrugged helplessly.

“I only wanted to say that I see it—and I understand. And I hope you can forgive me being so focused on our new beginning, when something so important to you is ending. I swear I don’t mean to be unkind.”

Sherlock reached to catch John’s fingers loosely between his own. “Thank you for saying so. And of course I’m looking forward—“

“It’s all right. You don’t have to.”

“But, yes, you’re right—something’s ending, too. I’ll be fine,” Sherlock assured, in a tone that John believed. “When it’s all said and done, I have you.”

“You have me,” John echoed, and leant up to plant a kiss on Sherlock’s bottom lip.

*

“All the staff have found arrangements, then, Holmes?”

“Very nearly, sir. Mrs Wood will stop working; she’s going to live with her daughter near Birmingham. The stablemen and footmen are situated, and most of the maids. There’s always work for those who wish to.”

“ _Hrm_. That’s the truth, Holmes. You’re sure I can’t persuade you to come run the town house? The butler there’s useless. Happy to shove him off.”

“Thank you, Colonel, it’s as flattering as it is tempting. But I never have liked being in town, and if I can’t work at Stonefield, I think I’ll make a go of working for myself.”

“Going to be a gentleman farmer, ‘swhat the missus tells me. In business with the groundskeeper, that Watson.”

“That’s right, sir.”

“I wish you well. You’ve a job in my house, if ever you need it, Holmes.”

“Thank you, Colonel.”

“. . .I, _hrm_ , swore an oath to your grandfather—“

“I appreciate the offer, sir. It won’t be necessary.”

“ _Hrm_. No. I’m sure it won’t. Good man!”

*

Two weeks before Stonefield was to close found John and Sherlock at their usual stations after supper, drinking tea together in the kitchen while Sherlock smoked his pipe. Sherlock was quieter with each passing evening, fixed his gaze on this or that corner of the room, and while he never let out a sigh, his entire countenance portrayed sighing as plainly as if he were heaving them one after the next. Now and then John ventured to pat the back of his hand, or his knee under the table, but there was nothing to say to comfort Sherlock, so he mostly just kept him quiet company.

Though usually they were left to themselves in the kitchen after the meal had ended and the dishes were washed, that evening Mrs Wood bustled in, ducking into cupboards and fetching out an armload of towels. A few of these she soaked with hot water from the tap.

“Is everything in order, Mrs Wood?” Sherlock inquired.

“I have it in hand,” was her reply.

“Something’s wrong.” Sherlock started to reach for his coat, hanging on the back of his chair.

“Nevermind it, Mr Holmes. It’s woman’s troubles.” She wrung out the wet towels into the sink. “Our Margaret—“ She stopped talking abruptly. “Nevermind.”

“Margaret’s ill?” John couldn’t stop himself asking. He was fond of Margaret, and given she had yet to find other work with so little time left, John was beginning to worry for her future.

Mrs Wood visibly hesitated, then shrugged a small sigh and lowered the volume of her voice. “She was with child,” she confided, and John felt Sherlock stiffen beside him. “No more.”

John stammered, “But. . .but she’s practically still a child, herself.”

Mrs Wood’s face hardened, her mouth thinning into a tight line. “Didn’t stop that Jones from encouraging her, did it?” she spat out, clearly disgusted. “But you mustn’t say anything, Mr Holmes—John—to anyone. She’ll be fine, but if it turns into gossip, she’ll be ruined. It’s not as if Jones would have married her. At the moment she’s unwell but that will pass. In the end, it’s for the best.” Mrs Wood gathered the towels and hurried away down the corridor.

John’s neck and ears were hot. His fists were clenched atop the table.

“That—“ he started, longing to spit a string of curses about Jones. “That. . .” He huffed rage through his nostrils.

“ _Fiend_ ,” Sherlock finished for him.

“I’m going to—“

“John, don’t.”

John stood, and began rolling back his shirtsleeves.

“This can’t go by, Sherlock. I knew he was no good. I saw she had feelings toward him and let it go because of her youth. Jones apparently had no such hesitation.”

“What are you going to do? Don’t be rash.” Sherlock sat far back in his chair, getting ready to stand.

“Not nearly as much as I’d like to do,” John said, and stalked from the room.

*

“Now, Holmes. Please don’t be rude and reject my gift.”

“Madame, though it’s very kind, I simply cannot—“

“Absolutely you can, and you will. I won’t tolerate a single argument against it. You’ve been a loyal servant to this house since you were a child; you mustn’t walk out of it with nothing to remember it by.”

“It’s too much.”

“Holmes, if you protest again I’ll have no choice but to consider you insubordinate and. . .fresh.”

“. . .’fresh’, Madame?”

“Put your eyebrow down, Holmes. You’re the nearest thing I’ve had to a friend in all the years I’ve been mistress at Stonefield, so naturally I stumble over trying to scold you. Please just tell me you’ll take the furniture so I don’t have to try it a second time. Spare me the embarrassment, won’t you? Please.”

“Thank you, Madame. It’s very kind, and much appreciated.”

“Of course, Holmes. It’s the very least I can do.”

*

Margaret was lingering in the kitchen after the washing up was done. Once the other maids had gone, she approached the supper table, crossing around it to the side where John sat, his left eye blackened, the bruise there starting to turn yellow and green around the edges.

“Mr Watson,” Margaret said, in a high, tight voice. She was paler than usual but otherwise looked like herself, and had been back at work for a few days after her brief convalesence.

“What is it, Margaret?” John asked, smiling warmly at her, though it caused an uncomfortable twinge in his cheek to do so.

“I just wanted to say. . .I saw Jones when he came in to get his lunch bucket yesterday. . .and. . .” She was twisting a dish rag so hard her knuckles were white.

“Mm?” John raised his eyebrows at her, feigning innocent ignorance.

“Just. . .” She bit her lips. “Thank you.”

“I’m sure I have no idea what you’re—“

“He would have beaten him to death,” Sherlock interrupted. “And frankly Jones earned it. But thankfully cooler heads prevailed in the end and some of the stablemen intervened. If they hadn’t, Watson could have ended up jailed—or worse. I hope you’ve at least learned something valuable from this mess, Margaret.” He frowned, and Margaret looked like she might dissolve in tears, staring at the floor ashamedly.

“She’s learned that she’s worth fighting for, Mr Holmes,” John interrupted. “And that not _every_ man is a scoundrel.”

Sherlock gave him a disgruntled look.

“It’s late, Margaret,” Sherlock intoned, and his meaning was clear. She dipped a quick curtsey, turned on her heel and scurried off down the corridor.

Sherlock scowled at his tea cup as he sipped, and John knew exactly what he was thinking.

“She’s got no one else to defend her, Sherlock. And to think how Jones exploited her. . .”

“I understand what motivated your actions,” Sherlock said shortly, still frowning.

“It’s not as if I’ve never been in a punch-up before.”

Sherlock set his cup down so hard in its saucer the tea splashed up over the rim. “Of course not. And now look at you.”

“I’m fine,” John protested, and caught Sherlock’s eye. “You saw Jones; he definitely got the worst of it.”

“ _Anything_ could have happened,” Sherlock scolded, his jaw clenched.

“Really, Sherlock. I’m fine,” John reassured, then softened. “Oh, come along now, Sherlock. My own, do you think I’d ever risk not coming home to you? _Really_ risk that?”

“Lower your voice.”

John leaned closer, elbows on the table. “I feel sorry for her, that’s all. Poor thing, about to be put out of the job she probably thought would get her through at least until she’s married, if not for the rest of her life. And with not a soul in the world that loves her.”

 “That’s ridiculous.”

“Her parents and sisters are all dead, Sherlock. She came here from a convent. She has no one.”

“She has you,” Sherlock said simply, as if nothing could be more obvious. “ _You_ love her.”

John sat back, and his face broke out in a grin; he knew Sherlock was speaking for them both but projecting the feeling entirely onto John.  It was no secret John wore his heart on his sleeve while Sherlock held his deep in his chest, well-covered by his starched shirts and dark waistcoat, but John had seen Sherlock’s heart, and knew it. John’s smile turned quickly wistful as his thoughts moved away from Sherlock’s unspoken emotions back to Margaret’s uncertain future. “Lot of good it does her—she still has nowhere to go.”

“Well then,” Sherlock said, with an air of finality. “She’ll come with us to Willowbrook.”

John stared.

“Close your mouth, John.”

John closed his mouth. “Sherlock. Are you certain—“

“One of us can take her on as a ward, or we can employ her as housekeeper and pay her a wage. She’ll be married soon enough, won’t she? A year or two?”

“Likely closer to five or six, I’d think.”

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. “We’ll need a woman to do the laundry.”

“Ah, now,” John chided, grinning. “You know this isn’t about the laundry.”

“Of course it is. Can she cook?”

John let go a quick laugh and crossed his arms. “Can _you_?”

“John, I’m being serious.”

“I know,” John soothed, and ventured to pat Sherlock’s hand. “You’re a good man, Sherlock Holmes. And so full of surprises.”

*

“Shall I carry you over the threshold?”

“Absolutely not.”

John’s face ached from smiling, and he couldn’t help but joke as a way to relieve some of his giddiness. He and Sherlock had walked the back half of the property most of the morning, marking out a sunny spot where Sherlock would undertake a new hobby—keeping bees and making honey. He’d ordered books on the topic, exchanged correspondence with several local beekeepers, and lectured John at length about the fascinating habits of honeybees. Even after several lessons, John only knew that having bees would keep both the fruit trees and his own Sherlock Holmes happy, and that was reason enough to have the hives.

“I’ll miss hearing you call me Mr Holmes,” Sherlock said tenderly, with a smile. “Your ‘yes, Mr Holmes’ has come to mean quite a lot to me.”

John patted the back of Sherlock’s shoulder. “Well, you never know when the situation might call for it,” he said, “But for now I’m well pleased just to call you my own.”

“Mr Watson! Mr Holmes!” Margaret came reeling around the corner of the house as they stood together on the front walk. “I wonder if you’ve thought about chickens.”

“Not recently,” John replied, amusement lighting his face. “Am I to think something specific about them?”

“We could sell the eggs,” Margaret volunteered. “Or, I could. To earn a bit to save.”

“An entrepeneur,” Sherlock said, with a nod of approval, and Margaret looked at him from under her eyelashes; she was still a little afraid of him even though John had explained that it was Sherlock’s idea for her to come to Willowbrook, to pay her a wage, and to give her not just an afternoon, but two entire days free each week. “We’ll certainly have to think about chickens. Wouldn’t you agree, John?”

“I know I will likely think of nothing else for some time to come,” John grinned. “What will you save toward, do you think?”

Margaret answered without hesitation. “A typewriter.”

“All right, then,” John said jovially.

Margaret vanished through the front door, and her shoes clicked merrily on her way down the corridor and then through the kitchen. When it had been decided Margaret would come along to the cottage, John had removed one of the kitchen windows and cut a doorway in its place, then he and two hired hands had built a snug little room there for her, with space enough for a bed, wardrobe, and desk—something Margaret confided to John she had longed to have since she was little. The mistress of Stonefield Hall had gifted Sherlock his pick of the furnishings before they went to auction—John imagined she might have had to use her feminine powers of persuasion on the Colonel to make it so—and so they were well fitted out with a sofa and tea table in the parlour, and comfortable armchairs in the drawing room. The long wooden table they’d lingered over on so many evenings at Stonefield now stood in the cottage’s kitchen.

John had splashed out on a fine bed with wooden head and footboards; a thick, firm mattress; fat down pillows; and the softest linens to dress it. Molly had made two quilts for it (one for each of them, really). There was a tall mirror on a stand in the corner of the bedroom— _their_ bedroom, John’s and Sherlock’s—and John had already put away freshly laundered clothes in the linen press he’d built into the wall. In the second bedroom was Sherlock’s bed from Stonefield, which looked small and sorry indeed—John would paint the metal frame soon to spruce it up—but the memories of which John wouldn’t trade for all the tea in England.

There’d been a brief, slightly awkward conversation—in euphemistically vague terms—with Margaret about their unorthodox arrangement, met with a pert nod and a pink-cheeked smile that looked almost like relief. “It’s not for me to judge,” Margaret had said in closing. “You’ve always been kind to me, and you’re kind to each other.”

Stonefield Hall was in its last days—the staff packed and gone on to new jobs in other houses or in town. Jones had hied himself back to Wales as soon as he could see straight. Mrs Wood was bound for Birmingham and a quiet life with her grandchildren, who now numbered fourteen. The Colonel and the lady of the house would settle for a life in town, in a tall, narrow, brick house with a staff of only five and no chauffeur. Stonefield’s land was being sold off to tenant farmers and the house and its contents would be auctioned to the highest bidders. Sherlock had arranged for perpetual care of his family’s little cemetery plot, cleared the desk in his office, and left his little room empty. John had driven them away—with Margaret on the bench seat between them—in a new/old lorry he’d bought for farm work, and as they bumped away down the long, winding drive, Sherlock had not looked back, not even in the rearview mirror.

“I’ve got something, John, that I want to show you before we go inside.”

John’s eyebrows went up. Sherlock strode to the lorry, in just his shirtsleeves and a pair or new trousers—brown, not black, as were his new shoes—nothing like his butler’s clothes. Even his hair was arranged differently, not left entirely to its own devices of course, but one voluptuous dark curl was left to swirl softly against his forehead. His collar was open. John wanted to catch Sherlock up in his arms and swing him skyward, but settled instead for intense, admiring gazing.

Sherlock returned carrying something flat and heavy he’d fetched out of the back of the lorry. It was wrapped in an old blanket.

“You wanted me to name the house, and I had a few ideas,” Sherlock said. “Little Stonefield, of course.”

“Of course,” John allowed.

“Willowbrook Cottage. Honeybee Hideaway.”

John barked a laugh. “Surely not!”

“No, of course not,” Sherlock intoned, mock serious, but with sparkling eyes. “I was absolutely decided, after what you said when you showed it to me that day a few weeks ago.”

John looked knowing. “Oh, yes. _That_ day.” He winked.

Sherlock’s neck went pink even as he ignored John’s comment and pressed on with his presentation. “You said, _it’s not Stonefield but it’ll do_. So I was going to call the house It’ll Do.”

“That’s actually quite charming,” John allowed. “Once the insult’s worn off.”

“Yes, well.” Sherlock began to unwrap the blanket from what now seemed was clearly going to be a plaque bearing the name he’d chosen for the house. “You said you thought of Willowbrook as you were falling asleep one night, and coincidentally the perfect name for the house came to me one night as I drifted off, thinking of what it might be like,” He stepped close beside John, holding the plaque back-to-front in his hands, and went on, quietly, for just the two of them to hear, “Living here with you—you siitting beside me while I read my books and smoke my pipe.”

John glanced at him, expectant, eyes glistening.

Sherlock turned the plaque over. “The very idea of it put my heavy heart at ease.”

John sucked a hard breath, tried to clear away the lump in his throat. “It’s perfect,” he said, and his voice was ragged. “It’s absolutely lovely.” John took the plaque from Sherlock’s hands, and moved to prop it up beside the front door, on the granite step. He’d hang it up as soon as he could find a hammer and nails. Stepping back beside him, John’s hand rested in the small of Sherlock’s back, and Sherlock didn’t shy from it or glance around wondering who might see. They were home.

 ** _HEARTSEASE_**  
_est. 1924  
John Watson  & Sherlock Holmes_

 

-END-

 

**_Coda:_ **

John and Sherlock made a good go and a nice living with fruit and vegetables from the farm, and Sherlock’s honey was widely in demand throughout the county, villagers travelling to Willowbrook Farm Sunday afternoons to buy up all they could of apples, pears, tomatoes, eight kinds of greens in the spring, and four varieties of autumn squash. What really gave Willowbrook Farm its reputation, though, were its flowers. John Watson had the greenest fingers, and the keenest eye for creative arrangements—he even cultivated things most people thought of as nuisance plants, and bunched them into bouquets alongside more traditionally elegant blooms. He also had the best nose, planting the most fragrant varieties of roses, lilacs, jasmine, and two magnolia trees near the house (which John told no one but Sherlock he’d planted because the aroma of the waxy white flowers was evocative of semen, and reminded him pleasantly of hours spent coaxing moans and sighs from Sherlock in the bed they shared). Flowers for every occasion simply must be bought from Willowbrook Farm; anything less raised eyebrows all over the county.

Margaret sold eggs enough to hire a boy to deliver them on a bicycle, and soon enough bought her typewriter. She never went to university, though she soaked up books voraciously once she’d given herself permission, and read things in common with Sherlock so they could discuss them together at supper. She typed away into the evening, closing the door to her room, and when she was twenty-five, published her first novel to some acclaim. She married late, nearly aged 30, and never had children, but instead wrote popular, well-loved stories about children in peril: spunky sprites who dug themselves out of trouble and triumphed, often with a scruffy but loyal dog by their side. As a wedding gift to her, John built a cottage on the back corner of the property—not wanting her to go far—for even when Margaret married he never stopped feeling that he and Sherlock were the only souls in the world who truly loved her. She kindly never disabused him of the notion.

Molly Harper (nee Hooper) gave birth to five sons in rapid succession who all grew up tall and tough but never cruel, and when the second great war came, they all went off to fight. Molly left a light on in the front room every night to help her boys find their way home, and by some miracle, they all did come home—as did all their eyes and arms and legs. “The Fighting Harpers” became quite a sensation, and when after 25 years serving the congregation her husband—still called the new vicar—passed away, Molly had quite a jolly life touring country fairs with her big, handsome sons, who attracted autograph seekers and marriage proposals alike, everywhere they went.

Sherlock tended his bees wearing a hilarious hat with a wide brim and a veil, a metal contraption that wafted smoke over the bees to quiet them, and heavy gloves to his elbows. Otherwise, he busied himself keeping the books for the farm, logging expenses and income, listing produce and plans for preserving and canning the surplus, and mapping which crops were planted in which little patch of ground. He took it into his mind one spring to build a footbridge over the brook; John rid them of the evidence of this misguided effort when Sherlock was in the village one day fetching the post. He made John rearrange their armchairs so that he did not have to lean over to reach John’s hand as they sat side by side in the drawing room watching the fire, or enjoying a novel (Sherlock read them out; John listened), or laughing at a comedic radio play. Some evenings they whiled away in companionable silence—Sherlock reading or writing in the familiar little black notebook, and John sketching with pencils on thick, cream-coloured paper at the nearby table—until one of them stretched and said, “Morning comes early,” and the other agreed, dampened down whatever was left of the fire, and followed him up the stairs. They fell asleep side by side and woke with ankles or wrists or elbows touching, and exchanged the day’s first kiss across the pillows.

Every morning, John tied a buttonhole for Sherlock, and brought it back to the house, and helped him pin it on.

 

**Author's Note:**

> And so ends this series of stories, of the besotted gardener and the frowning/blushing object of his affection.
> 
> I hope you have enjoyed reading these tales even half as much as I have enjoyed writing them. It has been sheer bliss for me, and I will miss Stonefield Hall and its inhabitants terribly, now that our men are happily settled in their little rubble stone cottage together, for as long as they live.
> 
> If you know me at all you know I never say never, so I will not say I'll never return to Stonefield (truth be told, I have two prompts for one-shots set in this 'verse just waiting to be written), but this particular story is over, and I hope the ending satisfies. I offer each of you Lovely Readers a hand-tied thistle buttonhole; you have made this journey even more enjoyable with yr enthusiasm and affection for these tales. Please know that every moment you spent with the stories left a mark upon my heart. I am touched and humbled by yr kindness, every day, and more than you know. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
> 
> “Yes: I am a dreamer. For a dreamer is one who can only find his way by moonlight, and his punishment is that he sees the dawn before the rest of the world.” --Oscar Wilde

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] All Said And Done](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5285516) by [aranel_parmadil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aranel_parmadil/pseuds/aranel_parmadil)




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